


Wouldn't It Be Nice

by Yuval25



Series: The Story Of Us [10]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - 50 First Dates Fusion, Amnesia, Drama, Drarry, M/M, Memory Loss, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 00:30:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10605543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuval25/pseuds/Yuval25
Summary: "Potter! Get the bloody fuck out of my bed!" he screamed, kicking the other man in the side.Potter turned with a groan, catching Draco's foot easily in one hand and flipping them over."Calm down," Potter mumbled sleepily.In which Draco wakes up on the day of his trial and finds Harry Potter in his bed. Only it's beenten yearssince the day of his trial, and apparently he's been waking up every day since, believing it to be July 5th, 1998.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I seriously considered giving this work the title, "Hi, I'm Tom!", since, y'know, Tom Felton, Ten Seconds Tom... but it was too much on the side of humour for what I'm planning for this story. Not that this story lacks humour, no, you'll find it in spades ;)  
> This work was written for the prompt "Obliviate".  
> Please share your thoughts!

Draco woke up slowly. The fuzzy dream of fields stretching across the horizon left his mind as consciousness and the soft feeling of silken sheets under his naked self took its place. He felt warmth next to him, but it didn't seem very important at the moment.

He dug his arm under his pillow and stretched his legs as far as they would go, arching his back. He sighed. Merlin, if he could only wake like that every morning, he'd be the happiest person in the world.

Memories of why it could never become his reality slammed into him like a train and he opened his eyes with a terrified gasp. His trial would take place today. The charges were as anyone would expect; assault, attempted murder, and of course, joining the Death Eaters. His arm bore the mark, there was no question he was one. The tattooed dark magic felt as if it was scalding his skin as he remembered the feeling of being summoned by _him_.

His right hand slid over the mark, feeling the slight change in texture on the otherwise even skin. He gritted his teeth, glaring up at the ceiling.

He didn't have the best lawyer, not the one he had wanted, the one he didn't have the money to pay for now. Nobody wanted to testify in his defense. The last few Death Eater trials he's read about in the Daily Prophet had ended with a conviction and a lifetime locked behind the closed gates of Azkaban. The absence of the foul Dementors did nothing to soften the black walls of the grim prison.

Something moved beside him, pulling him from his thoughts. He looked towards the shifting and noticed that he was not as alone in his bed as he had thought. Beside him lay a man, a very naked man, with a muscular back and a nest of black hair on his head. There was no question of who that might be. In all his life, Draco had known exactly one person with that unruly, darker-than-the-night hair.

"Potter! Get the bloody fuck out of my bed, you perverted tosser!" he screamed, kicking the other man in the side.

Potter turned with a groan, catching Draco's foot easily in one hand and flipping them over so Draco was lying on his stomach, Potter hovering above him and holding him down.

"Calm down," Potter mumbled sleepily.

"Don't tell me to calm down!"

Draco tried to break free, but his efforts left him further pressed against Potter, or was it the other way around? He could only process the strong hands holding him to the mattress and the heat radiating from Potter's surprisingly fit body.

"Come on, don't you remember me a little?" pleaded Potter, and though he could not see him, Draco could imagine his expression. The Gryffindor has always been an open book about his feelings.

Potter's naked crotch came in contact with Draco's bare arse as the black-haired man shifted to gain a better position.

"RAPE!" Draco screamed, twisting like a fish out of the water.

"Jesus, just calm down, Draco! I'm not going to hurt you!" yelled Potter, his hands re-capturing Draco's after the blonde had managed to free them while the Gryffindor was distracted by his thrashing.

"Don't say my name! You have no right to say my name!"

Confusion and fear danced through Draco's brain.

Potter gave a none-too-gentle push to Draco's wrists, pinning him harder against the bed.

"Calm down already! Just let me explain!" Potter said desperately.

" _No!_ " Draco growled.

"Look at me!"

He was flopped over again, this time to his back, and now had full and un-restricted view of the naked Potter, all firm muscle and tan skin, face set in a grim expression and hair wilder than he had ever seen it.

This man, handsome as he might be – and Draco inwardly cursed himself for admitting that – was not the eighteen year old Draco had expected to see, that much was clear. The man looked to be about twenty five, give or take a few years. It was hard to tell, because the man's stubble and adult face collided with his short height and burning eyes.

"Who are you?" Draco whispered to the stranger. Had the Potter-look-alike kidnapped him in his sleep? How did he not notice? Usually, Draco's sleep was light and he would wake up at every noise. The habit was born in the summer when the Dark Lord and his aunt Bella had stayed in the Malfoy Manor.

"It's me, Harry. Come on, you know me."

Evidently, he didn't.

"Harry Potter does _not_ look like that," Draco argued, a bit unsure now, because the man above him _did_ look like Harry Potter, albeit an older version of the Gryffindor. His mind raced through the possible solutions. An aging potion, or a spell…

"I didn't drink a potion or whatever it is that you're thinking," The man promised, as if reading his mind. Had he read his mind? Draco inconspicuously dropped his eyes, avoiding the hypnotizing green ones.

All the time turners have been destroyed…

The other man sighed. "I really didn't want to do it like this," he said under his breath. "Okay, listen, you don't remember, but it's been ten years since your trial. You don't remember this because you were hit with a nastily tinkered Obliviate that fucked up your short term memory."

Draco frowned. Had he resorted to lies, now? Big mistake. Draco knew lies. Draco _lived_ lies. He was practically the master by now. An open book like Potter wouldn't be able to deceive him. But then, who guaranteed that this even _was_ Potter?

"You can remember everything that happened before you were hit with that spell, but you can't make any new memories," the man who claimed to be Potter continued, oblivious to Draco's internal struggle. "Maybe we should floo Narcissa…"

Draco's eyes flew up to the man's face at the sound of his mother's name. The man met his eyes, and for a moment Draco's mind blanked and he could think of nothing but the colour of the man's green eyes.

The moment passed.

"Let go of me," Draco hissed with new resolve.

Surprisingly, the man listened. He slowly relieved the pressure on Draco's wrists and midsection and shuffled back until he was standing beside the bed, still not making any move to cover his nakedness. This man, whoever he was, was not body-conscious. Draco, on the other hand, quickly pushed himself into a sitting position and shoved his legs under the covers, bringing the blanket up to his stomach to cover his nudeness.

"Get _out_ ," he barked.

The man shook his head. "Not yet. We need to talk."

"We really don't."

The man groaned and rolled his eyes. "Fine, get dressed. I'll call Narcissa."

The man paused briefly at the large doors, opening them and pulling out a pair of trousers and a jumper, before he waltzed out of the room, leaving Draco to his own devices.

Draco sat there for a long time, contemplating following the man or perhaps trying to escape through the window throwing light into the room. Eventually, his mother decided for him.

Three knocks interrupted his thinking, followed by his mother's voice.

"Draco? Harry called me. May I come in?"

He quickly became aware of his undressed state and yelled, "Just a minute."

He grudgingly stomped over to the double doors on the other end of the room – the closet, he assumed – and opened them to reveal rows upon rows of clothes, some folded and some hung on racks.

He grabbed the first button-down shirt and trousers that seemed decent, and then looked for pants in the many drawers. He couldn't remember seeing pants in the other man's choice of outfit. Draco wasn't sure how that made him feel.

He dressed quickly, grabbed his wand from the nightstand he woke up on the side of, then went to open the door, feeling surprised to see his mother on the other side. For some reason, he had expected it to be a ruse, another lie.

She was dressed in high-quality, tailored robes and a matching hat. The other man had obviously not been a very good host, since her hat was still on. Draco felt a rush of anger towards the stranger who he could see now was hovering by a flight of stairs leading to a lower floor.

"Mother," he said by way of greeting, holding himself in the way he has always had around her and his father. For some reason, this change in posture caused a glint of sadness to appear in her cold gray eyes.

"Draco," she responded, and suddenly he was aware of their height difference. Had his mother grown short overnight?

She must have noticed his confusion, because she put a hand on his shoulder in an act of reassurance and said, "Come, we shall speak in the sitting room."

She led him down the stairs to the sitting room, since this house was completely unfamiliar to him. The man who resembled Potter followed behind, but seemed to know the way.

The sitting room was large. The walls were a neutral cream color, the homogeneity broken by a bookshelf and many framed pictures – not portraits, Draco noticed – scattered all over. The floor was a warm, dark-brown wood. There was a fireplace burning brightly, its warmth spreading all over the room. Across from it were a cream colored sofa and two crimson armchairs, one on each side, slightly angled towards each other. Between them was a low table with a couple of magazines thrown on it and an unfinished game of wizarding chess, the pieces dozing silently on the board. A simple, minimalistic muggle lamp hung from the ceiling, throwing artificial light down on the room. Draco's nose wrinkled. He much preferred the light of candles.

The Potter-look-alike took a seat in one of the armchairs, settling into it like he'd done it countless of times before. The familiarity of the sight confused Draco.

His mother sat on the sofa, leaving Draco to choose between the other side of the sofa and the second armchair.

He strode over to the second armchair, sitting cautiously, as if it might attack him. He looked expectantly at his mother.

"I do not know what Harry already told you, so I'll start from the beginning," she said, and Draco's eyes darted to the other man's face when she spoke his name. Could it be possible? "On the day of your trail, a misfired-"

"Like hell it was!" the other man growled, but Draco's mother ignored him.

"-Obliviate hit you and knocked you unconscious. When you woke up in the St Mungo's, you didn't remember anything from the day before. You believed it to be the morning of the day of your trail all over again."

Draco's eyes drank in the changes in his mother's face. A few more creases here, a couple more there, though she would never admit that. Her eyes looked less burdened, her exterior calmer. Draco remembered how she had been the day before his trail, how thin she looked, though now she seemed healthy. A little voice in the back of his head said that this could be just part of the act, that a simple polyjuice could be at play, but he shoved the thought back.

"In the following week, the Healers noticed a pattern. You would wake every day, and think it was July fifth, the day of your trial. They reached a conclusion that your short-term memory was damaged, and spent almost a year trying to fix it."

Draco sat there, horrified, unable to move throughout her explanation.

"You were diagnosed with anterograde amnesia. Its affects vary from patient to patient. In your case, the Healers believe your memory becomes… inaccessible to you while you sleep. It's still there, Draco. You and Harry tried many things, Legilimency and looking through the Pensieve. You couldn't see the memories but they were there. There was no question about it."

Draco swallowed. "Then how do I… unlock it?" he asked. He was beginning to accept that this wasn't just a dream, just a lie.

His mother sighed and shook her head. "You don't. We have yet to find a way."

His gaze traveled over to Potter – he was relatively sure that it was Potter at that point – in question.

"It's true. But I'll never stop searching. I promised you that," Potter said.

Draco nodded and then dropped his head into his hands. "I need some time alone."

His mother rose and patted his shoulder lightly before disappearing down the hall they came through, the sound of her heels clicking against the wooden floor becoming dimmer as she got further. Potter got up as well, but didn't touch him, and the sound of his footsteps was nearly inaudible, which was strange.

When he was sure they were both gone, Draco's hands weaved themselves into his hair and clutched the blonde tresses as he wept.

It felt like hours before he heard a tentative knock against the opening leading to the hallway. His head snapped up, still tear-struck, and he saw Potter standing there with one hand in his pocket.

"There you go. You've got what you wanted. Are you pleased? You can go now," Draco said miserably.

Potter rolled his eyes – _rolled his eyes_ , the wanker – and walked into the room. "Oh, cheer up. It could be worse."

Draco had a hard time believing that. In his eyes, the situation could not get any more wretched. "Yeah, how?" he challenged.

Potter chuckled, sitting on the armrest of the sofa, too close to Draco for comfort. "I should take you to meet Clive's doctor again. His case is real unfortunate, trust me."

"Who?" Draco asked. It seemed he could not stop talking to Potter, despite himself.

"Clive Wearing. He's got what you've got, only so much worse. His wife wrote a book about it. We've got it; it's right there on the shelf."

 A quick look at the shelf revealed nothing, so Potter summoned the book and it flew into his hand. He put it in Draco's lap.

"There you go," Potter said.

"What do you mean, so much worse?" Draco had to ask. His hands slid over the book's thick cover.

Potter's eyes visibly saddened. "His memory span is a lot shorter than yours. Seven seconds to half a minute, they say."

Draco's own eyes widened. That really was worse.

"How can he live like that?" he wondered aloud.

Potter answered him anyway. "Barely. He's got his wife coming to visit him, even in her old age. He recognizes her, apparently."

"And I have-"

"Me," Potter stated, looking pleased.

"You?" Draco spat, shocked. It should have occurred to him earlier – they had been naked in bed together. Though, why that would make any sense was beyond Draco.

"Yep. No need to sound so enthusiastic about the idea," Potter drawled sarcastically.

"Well, forgive me if I can't imagine myself with you," Draco snapped back.

"Really? That's not what I've heard. From you. A week ago," Potter seemed to struggle to find a good way of phrasing that sentence.

Draco could see this conversation was going nowhere, so he changed the subject. "So you just wake me up like that every time? Call my mother, force me into a relationship with you?"

"Jesus- No, Draco. Of course not! I don't force you to do anything. _Ever_. I wouldn't do that. As for waking up, today was just a slip up on my part. I fell asleep," Potter tried to excuse away, shifting on the armrest.

"So, what, I just let you into my bed?" Draco sneered.

"Technically, it's my bed, too."

"That's not the point, Potter."

"It's Harry."

"What?" That threw Draco off for a second.

"My name, it's Harry," Potter insisted, face unsure.

Draco let out a mirthless laugh. "Don't push it, Potter."

Potter shrugged. "It was worth a shot."

"So, what now?" Draco asked.

Potter smirked. "Now we both confess our feelings for each other, you jump into my arms, and I lift you up the stairs so you could have your wicked way with me."

Draco glared at him.

Potter sighed, a smile still present on his face. "Fine. Now we talk about things over breakfast, I guess. You must be hungry."

As if on cue, Draco's stomach rumbled.

Potter laughed. "Let's go, then. Kitchen's that way." His thumb pointed at the hallway they had come through.

Draco rose to his feet – he was quite hungry, after all – and put the book aside. He'd read it later. He followed Potter into the kitchen, his head thumping in time with his heartbeat from the confusion. He still felt unsure, uncertain as to Potter's motives. If Draco's memory was really… wiped clean every night, why would Potter stay? Why would anyone stay?

"Why…" he voiced his thoughts, "Why would you-"

Potter threw him a look that made him cut off his words. It was a gentle look, half-sad, half something else. It was a look that Draco's never been on the receiving end of, apart maybe from his mother. But then, that was different, too.

"Breakfast," he reminded Potter when he felt they had been standing there for too long.

Potter nodded, and continued walking. He turned right, through another opening and into a smaller room than the sitting room. A square table with four chairs stood in the middle of the room. To the side of it were cabinets and a sink, as well as what looked like an assortment of muggle electronics Draco half-recognized from raids he had taken part in as a Death Eater. The tall, silver-colored box was used for cold storage and the smaller box with the see-through front was used for heating. An even smaller device with two slots made for toasting sat unplugged on the marble counter. By the sink, a stripe-patterned vase carrying lilies gave some color to the room. An artistic, unmoving photograph of fruits in an earth-colored ceramic bowl hung over the counter, to the left of the sink.

Potter reached over and opened the cool storage box, revealing multiple colorful boxes of food and cartons of milk, as well as two plastic drawers. He opened the first one, revealing fruits and vegetables, and took out three green apples. Then he opened the second, which held cheese and yogurts, and grabbed three of those, too.

He put them all on the counter, and then opened a drawer and pulled out two bowls. He opened another one and extracted a kitchen knife. He then proceeded to cut the apples into little squares and divide the portion between the two bowls. Then he opened the yogurts, poured the contents of them into the bowls as well, pulled two spoons from the drawer he had taken the knife from, and served.

As if Draco was going to eat _that_.

"You said breakfast," he said accusingly.

Potter just shrugged at him, sitting down on one of the chairs and dug into his meal, if it could even be called that.

"We're short on eggs and bread, and you like yogurt with apples," he said, mouth full.

Draco frowned at Potter's awful table manners. In the end, he sat down. He _was_ hungry, after all.

"So, Potter, talk," he ordered after he ate a few spoons of the makes-shift meal. It wasn't as bad as he had thought. Actually, it was pretty good.

"Okay," Potter started. "Narcissa pretty much summed up your condition, so I guess I'll start from there."

Draco looked at him expectantly, urging him on with his eyes.

"You stayed at St Mungo's for about a month. They wanted to put you in the Goldfield Ward, as it specializes in spell-induced memory loss, but you objected to the idea. Your trial was postponed until after you were released. There was a lot of media coverage; some thought it was just a trick to avoid Azkaban. They moved on quickly, though.

"I was visiting George – Weasley, that is – with Ron when I saw you. He tried to… Well, anyway, I wasn't very… sociable after the war. Didn't get out much. I only found out about the amnesia the next day, when I came to gather some test results and you didn't remember our conversation. Or, well, more like a yelling match, really-"

"Get to the point, Potter," Draco cut him off, impatient. This whole situation was making him uncomfortable, throwing him off. The name 'Potter' still spiked a rush of annoyance in his mind.

Potter cleared his throat, cheeks coloring, and Draco watched with reluctant fascination how the skin took on a light pink hue.

"I got curious, and I came to see you again the next day. You still didn't remember my last visits, and that made me even more… driven. I was actually trying to make amends, get past our… whatever we had, but you were so obnoxious I always ended up drawn into some stupid argument with you." Potter smiled, his expression reminiscent. "Narcissa hated it, of course. I was upsetting her perfect little baby. That only made me try harder."

Draco rolled his eyes. Of course Potter would interpret 'No' as 'Yes'. It came with the boastful personality.

"Eventually you were released. Your trial was… quite a mess, actually. Your defense was solid, though; between the fact that you can't actually give consent to magically binding rituals like the Dark Mark under the age of seventeen and the lack of hard evidence on you killing anybody, their accusations were about as effective as trying to drown a fish in water. A few Healers had agreed to testify in your defense, and since your mother was cleared of charges at that point, she did, too. You got off with a few months of community service, and that's it.

"But even after that, I would still find excuses to meet with you. I would sit next to you at the Leaky or bump into you when you were shopping in Diagon Alley. You have to understand, I had spent the few months after the war feeling nothing. I was empty. But when I saw you… all the rage and frustration came up to the surface and I couldn't get enough of it, of you. It was like I was addicted, and even Ron and Hermione couldn't shake me off the idea of meeting you. I was obsessed." Potter chuckled, and then shook his head. "Eventually it blew up in my face. I kissed you. I was just feeling too much, I was overwhelmed."

Draco's spoon was already lying in the empty bowl, but he found himself transfixed by Potter's words, by events he could not remember, by pictures that didn't make sense. His mind was racing, trying so hard to break the wall that separated him from the memories.

"I stayed away for a few weeks. I was too confused. When I came back you didn't remember anything, as expected, but Narcissa pulled me aside for a good long talk. Or scolding, more like. She said you stopped flying."

Draco didn't even try to mask his surprise. Potter noticed, and nodded at his expression.

"I thought it was strange, too. But she said that every morning, you'd start your day with a few hours of flying. She said you stopped doing that when I stopped bumping into you. And that's when I decided to come back. The rest is pretty much history…"

"That still doesn't explain this morning. It still doesn't explain _you_ being in _my_ _bed_ ," Draco grumbled with a scowl.

Potter laughed sheepishly then, a hand coming up to bury itself into his hair and making an even bigger mess out of it, a feat Draco hadn't thought was possible.

"Well, I didn't exactly give up after that. I still wanted to kiss you, and eventually, maybe you started to get just a little bit used to me, or something. You weren't so surprised to see me after a while. You did get snappish and told me to go to hell more times than not, but you seemed to accept my presence. You also noticed when I became too smitten with you, and I guess you saw an opportunity there. I'm your punch bag, so to speak. Your way of getting rid of your aggressions," he finished, folding his arms over his chest and looking satisfied with this explanation.

Draco, however, was not.

"Try again, Potter," he spat. The images of him taking out his frustration on Potter sexually were causing his head to spin.

"I'm serious. Do you need to view my memories in a Pensieve? Because you can, I'll gladly give them to you."

Draco shook his head. He didn't want Potter's fantasies in his head – he already had enough of his own.

"I want to speak to the Healer who treated me," Draco demanded. Maybe if he got confirmation from a reliable source, one that wasn't his mother or damned Potter, this would feel more real and less like a joke.

Potter immediately nodded. "I thought you might, so I called in advance. Your coat's on a rack by the blue door we passed on the way here. Just let me grab mine and we'll be off."

Draco grimaced, not liking being ordered around, but figured he didn't have a lot of options here. After all, he didn't know the layout of the house and had no way of getting around.

He found a nice, leather coat where Potter directed him, and was pleased when it fit his body perfectly. It was exactly the coat he'd buy himself. It probably _was_ , if stories were to be believed.

Sighing, he turned to see Potter waiting behind him, a scarf and a jacket added to his attire.

"Ready to go?" Potter asked, pulling out his wand.

Draco nodded, taking Potter's offered hand and let himself be Apparated along.


End file.
